


Carry That Weight

by buffyaddict13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:31:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyaddict13/pseuds/buffyaddict13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead.  And then he isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry That Weight

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick fix-it I wrote after The Reichenbach Fall. This features our usual duo: Confused John and Socially Awkward Sherlock. With bonus angst and bathtubs!

The silence is heavy. It has an almost palpable weight. It casts its own shadow. It is the precise size and shape of Sherlock's absence. It sits beside John on the sofa, at the table, in the back seat of every taxi, it walks beside him along the high street. It reminds John exactly who should be there, but isn't.

Mycroft offers to removes Sherlock's things from the flat, but John resists. This discarded equipment, beakers half-filled with nameless fluids, dusty books, a skull filled with unsmoked cigarettes are all John has left. This detritus is all John has left of the most brilliant man he has ever known.

( _And the silence._ )

Because, yes, no matter what Sherlock said from atop St. Bart's, no matter what Moriarty _wanted_ him to say, Sherlock Holmes was a genius. He was not a fraud. The public can believe what they like, like the useless sheep they are. Cowards and fools, the whole lot of them. Especially Donovan and Anderson.

John knows the truth. Sherlock Holmes was many things: a show-off, a narcissist, socially awkward, an occasional liar. But he was no cheat. Why bother to invent enemies when they already exist? When he spent so much time fighting against boredom or against himself?

Now John semi-limps up the 17 stairs and unlocks 221B. The silence enters the flat first. John follows. You'd think after living with Sherlock for so long, after putting up with his impossible mood swings, the unwieldy ego, the man's constant litany of _you see but do not observe_ , John would have noticed. He would have observed the scarf.

But he only sees it.

A blue scarf lies neatly on the now-clean kitchen table.

John sighs and reaches for the kettle. His gaze drifts past the scarf, returns to it.

He frowns.

The last time he'd seen a scarf that particular shade of blue had been around Sherlock's neck. On a dirty sidewalk. It has been soaked with blood. So had Sherlock's hair. His face had been--

John shakes the image away.

A blue scarf lies neatly on the kitchen table.

John swallows audibly.

He drops the kettle.

The silence shatters.

He snatches the scarf from the table and bellows the name. It's not a question. It's a demand. A prayer.

"Sherlock!"

He knows Sherlock is dead, 

( _he's alive_ )

he saw him fall,

( _he's alive_ )

he'd been at the funeral.

At the cemetery.

But he'd asked for one more miracle, hadn't he. One more magic trick. One more act of brilliance. Just one more.

John isn't aware of the words pouring from his mouth as he throws Sherlock's bedroom door open. The room is empty. 

"Please be alive," he mutters, the words falling like pebbles, like breadcrumbs, and they lead him straight to the loo. "Please be alive," he says, and pushes the door open. "Please," he whispers. "For me."

A figure sits in the tub.

The room is dark, but the white lip of the old-fashioned tub shines bright as bone. The figure within (a man, a tall man) is wearing a long coat. His knees are drawn up, arms clasped tight around them, head bent low. John can see unruly curls pressed against dark wool. The figure is not wearing a scarf.

John blinks in the dimness. His heart thunders. He reaches for the light switch, but hesitates. He is afraid. What if he turns on the light and he is gone ( _again_ ), and John is left with nothing but an empty tub and another pathetic story for his therapist?

There's a voice.

A voice he knows like his own reflection, and he can just barely make it out past the thunder in his head.

"--sorry. John. I'm sorry. It took longer than I thought. I--I miscalculated. But he's dead, John. _Finally._ Moran is dead and you're safe." Sherlock lifts his head and there's an expression on his face that sends John's hand slapping dumbly at the light switch.

Sherlock is doing something with his mouth that appears to be a horrifically poor attempt at a smile. His face is gaunt. Pallid. Waxen. A dozen similar synonyms leap through John's head that all mean _exhausted, ill, very not good_. And there's blood. It's in Sherlock's hair, down the side of his face, smeared across his neck. For one horrible, endless minute John can't tell if Sherlock is lying on the sidewalk or sitting in the tub. Can he be in both places at once? Can John?

The light flickers, goes out.

John blinks. He looks up into Sherlock's face and realizes the lights are fine, he's the one who went out--he just fainted like a girl. Bloody hell. Wait--

Sherlock.

Is alive.

Sherlock is staring down at him, eyes impossibly wide, and John thinks maybe he's in shock. He thinks of daft orange blankets and reaches for Sherlock's shoulders, pulls himself into a sitting position. He scans Sherlock's face for the source of the blood.

"Where," he asks, sounding more patient than he feels, "are you hurt?" It occurs to John there are myriad other questions he should be asking. Questions such as _where the bloody hell have you been?_ and _how could you ever think I'd believe you were a fake?_ and _why have you come back now?_ But the answers don't really matter because Sherlock is here, he's _right here_. His skin is warm beneath John's fingers, his hair is unkempt and oily, his coat is rough and smells of cigarettes.

"--longer than I thought. I made a mistake, but I've rectified it. Sebastian Moran is dead, John. Finally."

John realizes two things. The first is Sherlock has been talking this whole time, nattering on about this Moran bloke while John was unconscious on the floor. The second is, Sherlock is trying to smile again. John pulls Sherlock into a tight embrace, presses the other man's cheek against the shoulder of his jumper.

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's okay. I don't know who Sebastian Moran is--"

"Moriarty's right hand man," Sherlock says. His voice sounds strained, the words too fast. As if he's out of practice speaking to anyone other than himself. "A sniper. He was sent to kill you. If I didn't convince the world I was dead, he would have shot you that day, John. I had to pretend. I had to die so that you didn't."

John blinks rapidly against Sherlock's mussed hair. Of course. Of course the bloody idiot would sacrifice himself for John. Of course he would.

Sherlock's fingers pluck at John's sleeves. "But it wasn't enough. He blamed me for Moriarty's suicide and vowed to kill you anyway. I couldn't let him--I couldn't--"

Abruptly, Sherlock stops talking, takes a shuddering breath.

John presses his hand against Sherlock's neck, feels the steady beat of his pulse ( _not like last time_ ).

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says again, as if he's been practicing apologies in front of a mirror.

"Are you hurt?" John asks again. His keeps his voice gentle.

"The blood isn't mine," Sherlock replies, the words muffled. He hasn't lifted his head from John's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I'm sorry I took so long."

John smiles into Sherlock's mussed hair. He's quite sure it's a proper smile. It feels like one, anyway. For the first time in ages--in months--his face feels relaxed. His stomach doesn't hurt.  
He feels...like himself. He wants to run up to the roof and scream at the top of his voice, he wants to tell all of London that Sherlock is alive, that he's back, that he's bloody fucking brilliant and anyone who doubts the detective can bloody well sod off.

But instead John rubs Sherlock's back and thinks about making tea. He thinks of the coming days that will be full of nagging Sherlock to eat and sleep and stop smoking ( _again_ ). He thinks of teaching Sherlock to smile again, teaching him how to _live_.

"Shh," John says, shushing him. "You're babbling. Everything is fine now." He pulls back slightly, taps Sherlock's shoulder gently. "And thank _you_."

Sherlock lifts his head and regards John as if he's the one who's been having semi-hysterics in a bathtub. "For what?"

John offers a hand to his friend, pulls him to his feet. "For coming back. For being alive when I needed you to be."

"Oh," Sherlock says, " _that_." He uses the special tone of voice reserved for all things tedious. As if the consulting detective fakes his own death to save his ( _one_ ) friend's life every other day.

John grimaces, shudders. Maybe he does.

"How about a cuppa?" John asks. He touches Sherlock's arm again, confirming the detective is still there. He is.

Sherlock nods. "Please."

Ten minutes later, when John sits on the end of the sofa, it's not silence who sits beside him. It's a freshly-showered Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
